


In the Pocket of the Universe

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale speaks Polari, Because of course he does, Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Historical Nonsense, I also don't know where anything is in London, I cry a bit, Idiots in Love, London is a flat circle, Missing Scene, OK now we've added a new chapter here's the additional tags:, Original Character(s), Porn with Feelings, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Relationship, Requited Love, Secret Underground Gay Bar, Smut, Spot the bitch who does not know how air raids work, They cry a bit, World War II, and who did almost zero research, but in a good way, is "cosy" a tag?, maybe you cry a bit also, no it's not, still some crying, unbeta'd we die like men, unrelated to the aforementioned crying lol, we shld make it one, which in this fandom means "everything is cosy" apparently lol, which it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-07-19 19:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Immediately after the church scene (and The Slow Zoom of Homosexual Panic), Aziraphale takes Crowley out for dinner in the only place still open in the middle of an air raid. Feelings closely follow.Explicit rating for the second chapter only, which takes place after Armageddon't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heads up comrades, i did not do a lot of research before writing this! let's just roll with it for the sake of Feelings. of which there are many. actually made myself a bit sad writing this, whoops! :D
> 
> hmu on tumblr if u like: [indieninja92](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/), posting whatever and tagging nothing B)
> 
> EDIT - OK now updated with an additional happy ending very smutty second chapter bc i cldnt resist lol hmu if u feel ive not updated the tagged accurately. happy reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale speaks polari in this, which i recommend you have a wee google of because it's fascinating af. i was working largely from Fantabulosa: The Dictionary of Polari and Gay Slang by Paul Baker and a couple of online glossaries. i rlly recommend paul baker's new book Fabulosa!: The Story of Polari, Britain's Secret Gay Language for a proper history, its brilliant and fascinating and rreeeaally well written
> 
> this was written originally as a stand-alone fic, and all the porn is in the next chapter so if that squicks you fear not - there is kissing in this and a little um heavy petting maybe? but nothing graphic imo

Aziraphale clambered down the heap of rubble, his feet sliding on loose stones and bits of slate. His grip on the bag's handle was white knuckle tight, his heart hardly slowing from the adrenaline of the evening. Suddenly, underfoot, a piece of stone slipped out of place. His leg shot out from underneath him and he pitched forwards with a shriek. An arm around his waist, a solid body stepping in to catch his own.

"Honestly, angel," said Crowley, the barest flicker of a smile on his lips. "How many times am I going to save you tonight?"

For a moment, Aziraphale could find nothing to say. He froze, half standing, the weight of his body pressed tight against Crowley's. Crowley's eyes met his, their faces so close that Aziraphale could see the animal shape of the pupils behind the sunglasses. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"Alright?" he said.

Aziraphale nodded, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Crowley seemed to be waiting for something but he couldn't think what it might be.

"In that case," Crowley said, his voice an ironic drawl. "Might you consider giving me my arms back?"

"What? Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, of course!"

Aziraphale pulled away in a stammering, blushing rush. Crowley didn't seem to notice. He straightened his suit and offered his elbow.

"Come on," he said. "I'll help you down."

As soon as they were back on solid ground, Aziraphale let go of Crowley's arm. He brushed some dust from his sleeve and cleared his throat, hoping the right words would come as he started speaking.

"Can I give you a lift anywhere?" Crowley interrupted. "Back to the bookshop?"

"Supper," Aziraphale finally blurted. He felt his cheeks grow warm and wished, not for the first time, he'd chosen a form just a little less prone to blushing. "I mean, we could get supper. If you're hungry. I'm absolutely famished myself, not used to this kind of excitement - they never tell you, do they, how hungry adrenaline tends to make you. Or is it just me? Seems everything makes me hungry-"

"Aziraphale. You're babbling."

"Um. Yes. Yes, I was rather. Sorry. Supper?"

Crowley shrugged, a full-body gesture that somehow involved his hips as much as his shoulders. "Love to, but in case you hadn't noticed, it's both the middle of the night and the middle of a bloody air raid."

Aziraphale thought for a moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He seemed to be deciding something. Finally, he nodded to himself.

"No," he said. "No, I know a place."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Mmhmm. It's not far and I think you'll like it. I hope you will, anyway."

"Well. Lead on, Macduff."

Crowley swept his arm in front of him in a mock gallant gesture. Aziraphale adjusted his hold on the bag, took a steadying breath and stepped past him towards the street where the Bentley was parked up on the curb.

"That's a misquotation and you know it."

#

Aziraphale directed Crowley through the streets. The roads were empty, every sensible person in London long since packed into an air raid shelter and likely to stay there until morning.

"You can park here," said Aziraphale. "We're going down there, on the right."

"Are you sure?"

The streets looked distinctly unpromising to Crowley, not least the grimy alleyway that Aziraphale seemed to be pointing towards.

"Of course I'm sure. Trust me, won't you?"

Crowley shrugged and turned off the engine. "If you insist."

The alley did not improve on its first impression. It was damp and dark with piles of broken crates and other rubbish piled against its walls. But Aziraphale walked down it with a confidence that was in stark contrast to his earlier nervous fumbling. His decision to bring Crowley here seemed to have calmed him, as if once started down the path he couldn't help but follow it to its conclusion.

He stopped in front of one of countless blank, industrial doors leading onto the alley. It was large and unmarked, and Crowley wondered if he was bringing them in through the restaurant's service entrance, though he couldn't imagine why.

"Angel, are you quite certain-" he began, but was cut off by the sound of Aziraphale rapping his knuckles against the metal.

It was a strange, stuttering sound, a mix of long and short pauses that only whetted Crowley's curiosity. He knew a secret knock when he heard one. A hatch in the door opened and Crowley could just make out a shadowed face peering out at them. Aziraphale only smiled.

"Hello, old boy," he said cheerily, as if there was nothing strange about the turn events had taken. "I'm a friend of Aunt Edie, if you could ask her to come up? Name of Aziraphale."

The person behind the door considered for a moment, then slammed the hatch shut. Aziraphale turned to smile at Crowley, a strange nervous excitement on his face.

"Shouldn't be a moment, dear. I'm afraid I've forgotten the password."

There were many, many questions Crowley could have asked at that, not least among them being, 'Since when have you been the type of person to frequent the sorts of establishments that require a password.'[1]

But before he could ask, the hatch in the door rattled open once more.

"Aziraphale?" came a voice from within, its hard east London accent softened with cautious affection.

Aziraphale turned smartly to face the door and beamed. "Evening, Edie! I'm afraid I've nanty clue what the lavs are this month. Would you be a love and let us in anyway?"

The person behind the door laughed. It was a warm, rich laugh, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. It was impossible not to like a person who laughed like that.

"I shouldn't! We've got standards, you know."

Aziraphale scoffed. "Since when?"

The voice laughed again, and finally the door swung inwards to let them inside. Crowley followed on Aziraphale's heels, still a little stunned.

The door led to a dimly lit corridor that wouldn't have looked out of place in any grandmother's house in the country. At the far end was a closed door which presumably led to the rest of the building's ground floor. Before that a narrow wooden staircase led down into the building's basement.

Not that Crowley took much of this in. He was watching Aziraphale greet the woman who had opened the door. She wore a pretty green tea dress with padded shoulders, matching kitten heels and impeccable make-up, and was hugging Aziraphale like an old friend.

Aziraphale kissed her on the cheek, clearly thrilled to see her. She pulled away and looked Crowley up and down, her hand on one jutting hip.

"And who," she said with an arched eyebrow, "Is this dolly thing? Varda them lallies, Aziraphale, what a dish."

Aziraphale's smile broadened. "Edie, meet my bona cove - Anthony."

He paused just fractionally before saying Crowley's new name, but Aunt Edie didn't seem to notice. She held a hand out to him, exuding warmth and welcome.

"Pleasure to meet you, Anthony. That's an awful pretty name."

Crowley shook her hand and papered his smoothest smile over his confusion. "Thanks," he said. "I'm getting rather attached to it, myself."

She squeezed gently before letting go and leading them down the stairs, talking over her shoulder.

"You boys hungry, or just in for a bevvy?"

"Something to eat, please," answered Aziraphale. "We've had quite a night of it, and I promised her some jarry before bed."

"Mm, I'll bet you did. We'll find you a table, my loves."

The stairs ended in another door, as faceless as the one they'd already come through. But when Aunt Edie opened it, a blast of noise and light and laughter spilled out from within. A thin-faced young man came rushing over to them wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking sheepish. Edie stepped aside to let him past.

"Alright, Bill, back on the door with you," she said. "If it's buvare you want, you can come back on your own time."

Bill scurried away up the stairs to take his place at the door again, flashing a shy look at Crowley as he passed. 

The room Aunt Edie led them into surpassed every expectation Crowley had, though the night had taken such a surprising turn that it was a wonder he had any expectations left at all.

The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and drunken laughter, the low light casting a shimmering sense of transgression over the scene. Along one wall ran a bar, shiny with bottles and glasses and doing a roaring trade. Waiters came back and forth through swing doors in the back that led to a bustling kitchen. A jazz trio plunked and chimed in the corner and on the dancefloor couples swung each other joyfully this way and that.

Edie led them to one of the booths that lined the walls.

"My own table - VIP only." She winked at Aziraphale. "Now, the menu's been redid since you were last in so do have a look and see what you'd like. Might be there's stuff on there we've run out of but ask away and I can check with the kitchen. I'll get Danny to bring you over some diddle while you're looking."

She left with a flick of her hair and sashayed away into the heaving crowds. Crowley watched her go, and then stared after her at the people who filled the club. There were more of them than seemed possible, a heaving mass of laughing, dancing, drinking bodies.

Some of them were definitely men. And some of those men were definitely dancing with others who were definitely men. And Crowley could see a number of couples whom he felt similarly confident identifying as women. But there were whole swathes of the club's clientele whom Crowley could neither pin down one way or another. Make-up, dresses, suits and high heels - none of the usual markers of gender used by 1940s English society seemed to apply.

"Crowley, darling, you're staring."

There was a gentle admonishment in Aziraphale's voice. When Crowley turned back to face him, he found Aziraphale looking pointedly at the menu. Crowley picked up his own menu and ran his eye down the list of offerings. As he did, a waiter arrived with a tray bearing two gently clinking glasses.

"Evening, auntie," he said to Aziraphale as he set them down on the table. "Couple of Veras for you and your bencove here."

"Much obliged, Danny."

Danny looked Crowley up and down, one eyebrow quirking upwards. "Nice bins," he said.

"Oh. Um. Thanks." Crowley wasn't sure what was being complimented but he took it anyway.

Danny turned back to Aziraphale and said, in what he might have thought was a whisper, "Is he so or what?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "I couldn't say, dear boy."

"Mm. Awful waste if not. Anyway, give me a nod when you're ready to order. Lamb's bona tonight."

He left in a flurry of youthful energy, leaving them alone with each other for the first time since they'd arrived. Crowley took a sip of his drink - a gin and tonic, and a strong one at that - and turned his attention back to the menu. He trailed a long, elegant finger down the lists, eyebrows raised.

"Aziraphale," he fairly purred. "I do believe you've brought me to a den of iniquity."

Aziraphale's answer came fast and fierce. "There's nothing iniquitous about it. Nobody here's doing anything wrong - or at least, no more wrong than anyone else, provided that they're doing it with proper respect and, and kindness to one another. I don't see how something as silly as what kind of body you have should-"

Crowley reached across the table and took Aziraphale's hand in his, stunning him into silence. "Angel. I meant the menu. Black market if ever I saw it."

"I... Oh." The wind fell out of him a little. "Well. The Ritz is still serving a full menu, I hear."

Crowley leant back in his chair. The movement pulled his hand away until only his fingertips were still touching Aziraphale.

"No offense but I'd be very surprised if you told me Aunt Edie pulls in the same kind of money as the Ritz."

Aziraphale pulled a face. "That's true."

He hadn't eaten at the Ritz for over a year now, or anywhere close to its stature. Crowley was right, of course, there was little to nothing on Aunt Edie's menu that hadn't fallen off the back of a lorry. But it felt different somehow to the wealth that paraded through Mayfair while ordinary people clutched at their ration books. Perhaps it was simple hypocrisy - perhaps it only felt different because he liked Aunt Edie's so much. But he didn't quite think so.

"You're right though," Crowley continued. "There's nothing inherently sinful in sexual pleasure. After all, I didn't get where I am today by tempting people into respectful and communicative celebrations of one another's bodies."

Aziraphale laughed, a breathy little thing almost lost in the sound of the band.

"No," he said. "No, I don't suppose you did. It's just... It's so easy sometimes to get caught up in the rhetoric of a place, or a time, or..."

Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses, yellow eyes unblinking. "But you know better. Don't you?"

Aziraphale licked his lips. "Of course."

Crowley held his gaze for a moment longer. "Good."

"And, have you," started Aziraphale. "That is to say, have you..." He sighed. Some things were too much, even for a night like this. "Have you decided what you're going to order?" he finished lamely.

"Mm, I thought perhaps the lamb, provided they've something decent to drink with it. Something, eh, fruity."

Aziraphale almost managed not to smile. "Oh, I expect they can rise to that."

#

"No. No no no n-no no. Is not like that. Is like..."

"What'sss it like?"

"Is like... Is like..." Aziraphale scrambled for the thought. He grasped it, sat up a little straighter, and proclaimed, "Vogue us up, ducky, your mother's a stretcher case!"

"My mother's a _what_?"

The small crowd packed into the booth fell about laughing. They had gathered as the night wore on, gravitating to Aziraphale and Crowley's increasingly raucous conversation. A woman in a three-piece suit tipped over slightly, falling into the arms of another young woman in a pretty pink dress. The girl in pink didn't seem to mind at all. Aziraphale reached for the bottle of wine. He shook his head as he topped up whichever glasses he could reach, slopping wine over the table, and tried to explain.

"No, dear boy, no, y'see... Y'see, in this scenario, I'm your mother."

Crowley pulled a face. His hat was tipped back on his head, jacket discarded hours ago. A line of sweat beaded on his upper lip.

"Well, that raises a number of questionsss."

The man next to Aziraphale, who'd introduced himself as Theo but whom everyone called Tiger, bumped shoulders with Aziraphale as he laughed. Aziraphale leant into him fondly - he was fond of everyone right now, even more so than usual. Someone squeezed his leg, perhaps Tiger, perhaps not. He didn't mind. He was brimming with contentment, his heart full of love of both the broadest and the most specific kinds.

"OK," said Crowley, trying to get a handle on things. "OK, ssso. Let me sssee if I've got this right... We zhoozh our riah... and troll around the smoke... cackling about dolly omis?"

Applause and cheers shook the booth. Aziraphale was entirely lost in a fit of giggles. 

"We do!" he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "We really do!"

Crowley took his hat off with a flourish and made as extravagant a bow as the lack of space would allow. The wine had left his cheeks hot and flushed, even in his shirt sleeves he was warm. But it was the warmth of wine and laughter, and he relished it. He'd missed this. He'd missed it so much. He leant - slumped - across the table towards Aziraphale.

"How d'you sssay... How d'you say that you fancy sssomeone?"

"Ooh, mother!" Tiger howled at Aziraphale's shocked expression. "He's getting awful bold!"

Aziraphale slapped him on the shoulder. "Who are you calling mother, you daffy bitch, you're forty five if you're a day!"

Crowley laughed along with everyone else. Aziraphale was sparkling, relishing the attention, the theatrics, the bawdy, raucous fun of it all. It wasn't a side of him Crowley got the opportunity to see often - the last time he remembered was that night in the George with Will and Kit back in '91.[2]

When the lights started turning on around them, Crowley's voice was among the loudest raised in protest. Aunt Edie walked through the club, waving her hands dismissively as her punters jeered and complained.

"Shut your eeks! I ain't running a doss-house here! You've all got kens to go to, and those as haven't best start batting the lashes at those as do."

The press of bodies in the booth eased as people started shuffling and slumping away. Tiger leant over to whisper something to Aziraphale. Crowley didn't catch the words, but he saw Aziraphale smile graciously and shake his head. Tiger shrugged, kissed Aziraphale on the cheek, and slipped away into the crowd. Crowley watched him go, not ready yet to move. People were moving towards the exits in couples and clusters, arms around one another's waists. He wondered how they'd get home, if they'd be safe dressed the way they were.

"Omee and palone She created them," said Aziraphale quietly. "And it was bona."

"Come now, angel. Don't get maudlin on me."

"Who's maudlin? I always liked that part."

He smiled at Crowley then, not the broad, crowd-bold grin he'd been wearing all evening but something quieter, more personal. Crowley slid out of the booth and held a hand out to Aziraphale to help him up with a heave. Once Aziraphale was back on his feet, albeit swaying slightly, Crowley went rummaging in the booth to find his sadly ill-treated suit jacket.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steadying himself against a table. He hadn't realised quite how drunk he was until he stood up. Judging by the fumbled sounds coming from inside the booth, neither had Crowley.

Aunt Edie made her way through the tide of people towards them.

"You'd better not be trying to leave without saying goodbye," she said sternly.

Aziraphale held his hands up. "Wouldn't dare, my dear."

She pulled him into a hug. "Don't you dare leave it so long again, d'you hear? We miss you."

"I miss you too," Aziraphale admitted.

Edie nodded her head towards Crowley. "And you can bring her back again any time."

The thought made Aziraphale's stomach flip. It seemed so possible. Anything seemed possible.

"I'd like that," he said quietly. "I'd like that very much."

"Aha!" Crowley lurched to his feet holding his jacket aloft in one hand - and Aziraphale's briefcase in the other.

"Oh! Oh the books, my goodness, I completely forgot, thank you, dear boy."

He took the briefcase from Crowley and checked its content. All present, correct, and mercifully free from spilled drink.

"I've got your back, angel. Ready to go?"

"Ready when you are. Bona nochy, Edie."

"Same to you, dear. Bona nochy, Anthony."

"Bona, uh... Yeah."

#

The night was warm. It would be dawn in a few hours and the city would flourish into life as a new day began. But for now, on the wrong side of the blackout curtains and with half the city still safely underground, the world felt strangely held in stasis, a secret shared between them and Her.

Aziraphale started towards the Bentley but Crowley shook his head. "I'll walk you home," he said. "I'm too drunk to drive."

"Oh." Aziraphale swayed on the spot, blinking at him. "Do... Do you want to sober up?"

"Nope," came the answer, quick and certain. Crowley wriggled his shoulders deliciously. "I like it like this. Feelsss good."

"Yeah," Aziraphale agreed. "Me too."

They started walking in the direction of the bookshop. It would be a long enough walk but time didn't seem to have the same reality it usually did. Aziraphale felt like he could walk for years and never move from that spot.

"Yeah?" said Crowley after a long pause.

"Hm?"

"You said 'yeah'. I don't think I've ever heard you say 'yeah' before."

"Well. You haven't been about much recently. P'rhaps I picked it up."

On another night, at another time, it would have sounded like an accusation. Instead it came out softly, a reminder and an acknowledgement, nothing more. It was the kind of night that honesty could survive in. 

Crowley exhaled slowly. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too. 'Specially in the twenties, oh my word. I remember thinking, somewhere around '27, '28, I was at a party and I just thought, my God, I bet Crowley's enjoying himself."

Crowley laughed. "I was! That wasss a damn good decade."

"Mm. Better than the one before, anyway."

"Yeah. That was... Yeah."

Their footsteps echoed off the empty shop faces. They turned a corner, and found a ragged edged hole where three houses should have been. It wasn't new - Aziraphale's double-crossing contact had been right, the bombs that night had fallen on the East End, save one. But that hardly made it any less disturbing.

They passed it quick and quiet, and it wasn't until they were in the next street that Crowley spoke again.

"I liked it, tonight. The club, Aunt Edie, meeting your friends."

Aziraphale smiled at him. "Oh, I am glad. I enjoyed having you there. I was a little nervous about it at first, I don't know if you could tell."

"I may have picked up on it a little."

"But then it went off so wonderfully. I should have known you'd get on with everyone, it's just like you, really."

Crowley frowned. "Is it?”

"Of course," Aziraphale said, surprised he should ask. "Whenever we've spent time with other people - and I know it hasn't been very much, but remember back in Oslo in '82, or Wittenberg (not that I'll ever forgive you for that one, honestly) or back when Kit and Will were-"

"Yes, angel, I remember. What are you getting at?"

"Well. You always made it such a party. People like talking to you. It's nice." Crowley stopped walking and stared at Aziraphale. "What? What's wrong?"

"That wasn't me, angel."

"What? Of course it was. Who else would I have been-"

"No, I mean. That energy, that 'everyone wants to talk to you' thing. That's not me. That's you."

Aziraphale blinked. "What?"

Crowley laughed. "People want to talk to you, not me. You're the one who makes people feel at home and gives them all these fuzzy, friendly feelings. People... Well, they tend to find me a bit, um. Weird, actually."

"What? No, don't be silly. It only happens when you're around."

"That's not true! All those people tonight, Edie and Danny and bloody 'Tiger' - they were all there for you. You met them without me, you made friends with them without me. They were only interested in me because you are."

Aziraphale stood for a moment, taking this in. "Oh."

"Idiot," Crowley said, full of affection.

They continued walking. Aziraphale considered what Crowley had said. "What have you got against Tiger?"

Crowley did not deign to answer.

The warm air made the night quiet seem thicker somehow, as if heat had congealed sound and time together. Crowley tilted his head back to look at the stars as he walked. After a moment, he took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his inside pocket.

"Doesn't feel real, does it?" he said. "Tonight, I mean."

Aziraphale nodded. He knew exactly what he was talking about. "It's like... Like we're in the pocket of the universe. Everything's happening somewhere else, to other people."

It feels safe, he wanted to say. It feels like it's just you and me and nobody else and for the first time in 6,000 years it feels really, honestly safe.

"D'you remember Amman?" Crowley said suddenly, cutting through his thoughts.

Aziraphale licked his lips, tasting the memory. Baklava, dates, the burn of arak in his throat. "Of course."

Without breaking his stride, Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale's. His palm was warm and dry, his bones fine and fragile under Aziraphale's soft fingers.

"Crowley," he began. "It's different now..."

"It's always different. It's different now and it'll be different again." He turned to look Aziraphale in the eye, and the flicker of doubt he saw there made his heart ache. He laced their fingers together and squeezed. "There's nobody around, angel. And if anyone says anything, I'll bite their fucking eyes out."

Aziraphale barked a short, shocked laugh. "Crowley!" he scolded, but it worked - he was smiling again, that lovely, precious smile that Crowley would do anything to protect.

"I will, you can't stop me. One word and pop, out they come like a pair of peeled grapes."

"You're vile."

Crowley gnashed his teeth at him amicably. The silence rose up between them, a comfortable, friendly sort of quiet that neither was in a hurry to fill. Through the still-boozy fog that filled his head, Aziraphale thought vaguely that it was lovely, actually, to walk like this again, Crowley's hand heavy in his the way they used to walk in Amman and Corinth, and nobody in the world to see them.

"D'y'ever wish they'd all just... bugger off?" he said after a few minutes.

"Who?"

"Everyone. Upstairs, downstairs, everyone in between."

"Ohhh, but you'd miss them though," said Crowley, leaning his shoulder against Aziraphale's.

They'd made it at last to Aziraphale's street, the bookshop dark and unlit like a face with nobody behind it. Aziraphale took his hand from Crowley's with an apologetic look.

"I don't know that I would, sometimes. Sometimes it seems like they're all rather more trouble than they're worth."

They reached the front door of the shop. Crowley leant against one of the pillars that stood on either side of the door as Aziraphale started patting his pockets in search of his keys.

"Oh, don't be like that, angel. What about, um. What about lemon meringue? Or Yorkshire puddings? You'd be miserable without Yorkshire puddings."

"Yes, alright, but-"

"I remember how excited you got when they first invented them, couldn't stop eating them, said it was the best thing since the potato. And there's another one, see, potatoes."

"I didn't really mean-"

"Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't happily suffer all the slings and arrows of outrageous blah-blah-blah if you were guaranteed a big, buttery bowl of mashed potatoes at the end of it all."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale laughed, exasperated. "That isn't what I meant!"

Crowley's eyes twinkled. It was a rare pleasure to see them without his sunglasses and the sight only made Aziraphale smile wider.

"No?" Crowley asked, all innocent. "What did you mean, then? Surely not that you'd learn to cook in this imaginary, empty world - I've never seen you so much as fry an egg."

"I have fried an egg, I'll have you know.[3] But I didn't mean that either. I meant... Oh, I don't know." He paused, looking down at his hands. "I don't know. Don't you ever feel sometimes like there's all this, this stuff going on. Wars and catastrophes and schisms and whatnot. And wouldn't you like to just, I don't know. Not have to deal with it any more."

Crowley leant his head back against the pillar. The movement made his hat tilt across his forehead and he took it off and held it against his stomach while he thought. Aziraphale watched it rise and fall as he breathed - an affectation, but one they had both embraced so long ago that it felt entirely natural now. There wasn't much room in the porch outside the shop door. If he has raised his eyes he'd have been able to see the flicker of a pulse in Crowley's throat. He did not raise his eyes.

"I suppose," said Crowley thoughtfully. "It depends. Is there still wine?"

"Yes, there's still wine."

"And dark chocolate?"

"Mm, I should think so."

"And beds? Can't believe we lasted so long without proper beds."

Aziraphale chuckled softly. "Yes, Crowley, there'll still be beds."

"And you? If we weren't what we are, would I still have you?"

Their eyes met, finally. Aziraphale's lips twitched, half-shaping words he couldn't find. Time had stopped. Crowley's face softened, the warmth in his eyes almost too honest to bear.

"Wouldn't be much fun without you," he said.

For a moment, they stood frozen together like creatures trapped in amber. The night held them in its breath, that strange, impossible, anything-possible night.

Aziraphale reached a hand, slow and dreamlike, to touch the side of Crowley's face. And this, this would be the time when something broke - some car backfire or fox's scream or a bolt of lightning from above, something, surely. Surely, he couldn't be allowed to take that first step forward, or the second, or to press so close to Crowley's body, he couldn't possibly be allowed...

Crowley's mouth was soft and warm beneath his, a bare hint of stubble scratching against his lips as they moved. It was chaste at first, lips brushing gently against each other, the taste of wine on their breath. Then a wave of need and longing broke inside him. 

He pressed his body closer towards Crowley's and was delighted to feel him give against the pressure, shifting his legs to make space for Aziraphale between them. Aziraphale's briefcase clattered to the ground as he brought his hands to Crowley's waist, feeling the give and heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Crowley made a noise in the back of this throat, something between a gasp and a moan, and it sent a shockwave of desire shivering down Aziraphale's spine. He let his mouth fall open, their teeth bumping clumsily in the rush to deepen the kiss. Crowley's hands were everywhere - in his hair, running up his back, digging desperate fingers into sides to urge him nearer, closer, more.

Aziraphale lost himself in the sensation. He could feel Crowley's heart beating like Revelation thunder where their chests pressed together, could feel the slow shifting of his body as it moved beneath his hands. Crowley's hips twitched reflexively and Aziraphale pressed his own against them, pulling Crowley's shirt loose on one side to press his fingers against the lovely jut of his hip-bone. His pushed his other hand slowly up Crowley's torso, relishing the lean, eager feel of him.

He was just about to pull away when Crowley surged forwards, standing up and turning them in a smooth movement. Aziraphale's back thumped against the shop door, knocking what little air he had left out of his lungs. Crowley laughed, cupping Aziraphale's face and kissing his ear, his neck, pulling his bow tie off one-handed and loosening his collar to reach the soft skin underneath.

"You alright?" he said between kisses.

Aziraphale nodded desperately, his hands hot in Crowley's hair. Crowley laughed again, his breath gusting against Aziraphale's skin. He moved back up to kiss Aziraphale's mouth, hardly believing he was even thinking those words, 'kiss Aziraphale's mouth', every syllable a ridiculous, thrilling revelation.

He dragged his hand down Aziraphale's body, popping open the buttons of his waistcoat one by one and slipping his hand inside. Aziraphale's body felt exactly like he'd imagined it, soft and warm and yielding. He dug his fingers into Aziraphale's side making him twitch and squeak. Even as Crowley was laughing, Aziraphale caught Crowley's bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, the sudden spike of pain making Crowley hiss with pleasure.

"Angel.... If we don't take this upssstairs soon..."

He ground his hips against Aziraphale's - and felt Aziraphale tense. His stomach lurched.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Crowley..."

"Please, angel, don't-"

"We can't-"

"Of course we can." Panic surged through him, he pressed his face into Aziraphale's hair and tried to ignore the sudden painful tightness in his throat. "I mean, if you don't want to- We can do whatever you want, I'll do whatever you want, but please, angel-"

Aziraphale sighed against him, his body moving instinctively into Crowley's touch. "I want to, you must know I want to, but-"

Crowley cut him off with a kiss, hard and desperate. Aziraphale started to kiss him back but pulled away too soon, much too soon.

"Stop, Crowley, wait," he panted.

Crowley fell still, his fists balled in Aziraphale's jacket. He rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, not daring yet to look him in the eye. Together their bodies rose and fell as they tried to catch their breath. Aziraphale spoke first.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, but we can't. We can't."

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. "Why not?" His voice was small and desperate, and hearing it only made him angry. "Why not?" he demanded. "The damage is done. We're already off the map, angel, we're already so far past what they would ever let us be. What's a little further?" A sardonic smile crept onto his face, mixing unpleasantly with the hope that still lingered there. "In for a penny..."

"Don't tempt me, Crowley."

"I'm not tempting you." All humour had left him now. "I'm asking you to… to..."

It was too much. The hope, the desperate tenderness in his face - Aziraphale felt his eyes filling with tears.

"I'm sorry," he tried to say, but his voice wasn't working properly. "Crowley, I can't..."

The effect was instant. Crowley melted into him, pulling him close in a desperate, painful hug.

"It's OK," he lied. "It's OK. I'm sorry too. It's OK."

Tears spilled over Aziraphale's cheeks and Crowley kissed them away, tender and chaste. 

"It's alright, darling, I've got you. Ssh now, I've got you."

He held Aziraphale for a long, long time, stroking his hair and trying to remember how to breathe. Finally, he pulled away. Aziraphale wiped his cheeks on his sleeve, wretched and ashamed.

"Crowley-" he began, but Crowley interrupted.

"Please don't. Just... just don't."

He stood for a moment, not knowing where to look or what to do with his hands. He spotted his hat on the ground near his feet and picked it up, putting it back on with a sigh. He took a deep, shaky breath and, with the last of his courage, he forced his eyes to meet Aziraphale's.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, more firmly than he felt. "Do you hear? Whatever you can give, I'll take it."

"Crowley, that's not..."

"Not what, not fair?" he spat. "None of this is fair! So bollocks to fair, bollocks to sensible or right or proper - I don't care!"

He took a step forward and his heart nearly broke to see Aziraphale move fractionally away. He ignored it.

"I'm not going anywhere, angel."

He ignored as well the part of him that whispered he had nowhere else to go.

Then, before Aziraphale could answer, he slipped his sunglasses out of his pocket and back onto his face. Immediately the world took on a distant, abstract colour. He leant forward and kissed Aziraphale on the cheek.

"I'll talk to you soon. Probably not tomorrow," he admitted. "But soon, OK?"

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley turned to leave, but Aziraphale called him back. Aziraphale's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He looked ridiculous, hair sticking up in all directions, collar pulled open to one side. Crowley smiled, a wretched little smile that was gone as soon as it appeared.

"Good night, angel."

Aziraphale's shoulders sagged. "Good night," he managed.

Crowley turned away, walking back the way they had come. It was a point of pride that he made it around the first corner before he started to cry.

#

It was dawn by the time he got back to the Bentley. The streets around Aunt Edie's looked even more dishevelled than the night before. Already the events of the evening were fading, scabbing over like they'd happened to someone else entirely.

He drove with single-minded purpose. It took less time than he was expecting, and the sky was barely hinting blue when he reached the place where the church had been.

As soon as he saw it, anger roiled through him. He slammed the car door and heaved himself up over the piles of rubble and broken glass, all his grief and sorrow crystallising into pure, unfiltered rage. When he reached the summit of the pile, he screamed.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, you heartless, vicious bitch!"

He kicked a pile of bricks with a force that would have broken any normal person's foot. Instead the bricks shattered and flew with a satisfying crash against the other rubble.

"I hope they finish you!" he shouted, directing his words wildly up and around him. "I hope they raze every church, every temple, every stupid, hollow, hopeless fucking shrine. I hope they burn every book that ever held your name. I hope they bomb the very thought of you out of their heads and put nothing, nothing in its place. I hope you burn!"

Tears ran down his face, painfully hot. He wiped them away with the back of his sleeve. He let himself drop, crouching on his haunches in a tight, hot ball of misery.

He lost track of how long he stayed there, tears soaking into his sleeve. Slowly the rage started to dissipate, draining away and leaving him empty and exhausted. The anger was still there - would always be there, simmering beneath the surface. But the fire had gone out of him. He took a breath, and another, and a third. Time to go home.

On his way back down to the car, something caught his eye sticking up out of the rubble. It took half a second for him to decide what he was going to do with it.

It was easier getting it into the car than out again. Back at the bomb-site he'd still been running on residual energy from his outburst. By the time he reached his apartment building he had nothing left but a well of tiredness that stretched a long way down and a long way back. He clicked his fingers, sending the object up before him, and slumped to the lift.

It looked bigger in the apartment, a great dark lectern with an outstretched eagle on the front. It wasn't a particularly holy object - it barely made his fingers tingle to touch it. But he liked the way it looked, uprooted and stolen from its proper place. He would keep it, he decided, as a bitter sort of trophy. It would remind him of that night, an impossible, hopeless night where the world had stopped, just for a moment. It would remind him of his promise to Aziraphale. And it would remind him of his anger, biting and righteous, at a God who couldn't keep the world from spinning just this once.

He threw his jacket over it and stomped down the hall. He'd sleep, he thought, for about a week. And when he woke, the world would be a little different. And that would just have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹ In fact, Aziraphale had been a member of any number of exclusive clubs and secret societies in the last 6,000 years. Demons weren't the only ones with a flair for the dramatic.[return to text]
> 
> ² He'd woken up the next morning wearing a paper-mache donkey's head and very little else. Will had been quite taken with the sight.[return to text]
> 
> ³e Once, 4,896 years ago. It had not gone well.[return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coda for the angst that came before - after Armageddon doesn't, Crowley and Aziraphale finally have time to say what they've been trying to say for 6,000 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um ok so i thought i was done? but then i sat down ummm *checks watch* yeah like literally ten hours ago and wrote this bc these boys deserve a happy ending. so here's my super hot take on that story nobody's ever written before - what happens after they get on the bus????
> 
> mostly it is porn, ngl.

They said nothing as they climbed onto the bus back to London. There was nothing left to say. The bus pulled away, engine chuffing and grumbling, too loud for the fragile night. As he took his seat, Aziraphale felt the tired, china-thin parts of himself tremble and grate against each other. He felt like he could fall apart at any moment, the panicked energy that had carried him through the week was seeping out of him with every push of blood through his veins.

Beside him, Crowley propped his elbow up on the window bottom and pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. Aziraphale watched, waiting for something to tell him how he could help, what he should do next. But nothing came. Crowley simply sat, eyes closed, head in his hand. Aziraphale couldn't look away. Crowley's jaw was tight and tense, his shoulders held too high. One of his knees starting bouncing compulsively. The bus drove on.

Aziraphale was not prone to haste. He did not rush, he did not hurry. They had two hours before they'd reach London, even allowing for the empty roads. But something small and urgent pressed at the back of his mind. It told him that if he did not act, and act now - if he did not reach out somehow, do something to demonstrate to Crowley whatever it was he so keenly needed to be shown - the damage of his inaction would be irreversible. He licked his lips, swallowed. Crowley's free hand sat on his skinny thigh, fingers tense enough to press shallow dips into the spare flesh. There was no instruction coming. There were no guidelines here.

His first touch was tentative, the edge of his finger tremulous on the back of Crowley's hand. And perhaps he was imagining it but it seemed that the grip of Crowley's fingers relaxed, just a fraction. The thought emboldened him. Aziraphale slipped his hand over Crowley's in a rush, a tectonic plate careening off course and bringing down mountains in its wake. The effect was immediate. Breath rushed out of Crowley in a tidal wave, his shoulders fell and he pressed his face into his hand. He didn't look up, didn't turn away from the window, but the hand under Aziraphale's twisted and then there were fingers laced between his, the beat of a pulse against his palm, the firm, fierce grip that told him he had made the right choice. Of course he had. Reaching for Crowley had always been the right choice. He felt a fool to have doubted it.

Crowley sniffed. Then he sniffed again, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, eyes still closed. Aziraphale waited. They had time - a little time, at least. At last. Finally, Crowley rubbed his eyes once more and looked at their hands where they lay on his thigh, his cheeks shining wet in the unreal glare of the bus's interior lights. He smiled, a shaky little thing that made Aziraphale hold a touch tighter. Crowley laughed, or perhaps it was a sigh - a sound like sand on the wind - and raised his eyes to meet Aziraphale's. Not for the first time, Aziraphale lost his breath at the sight. Crowley's eyes were blown full-yellow, his face open and vulnerable. Aziraphale licked his lips, and those beautiful yellow eyes flicked down to watch the movement. The moment hung like a hollow thing between them. Aziraphale's voice, when it came, was so small it might have come from another place entirely.

"I... I don't think we're quite finished," he said. The surface of the quiet hardly rippled. Crowley nodded.

"I know." His eyes strayed once more to Aziraphale's mouth. His own lips twitched with something unsaid. He swallowed, found Aziraphale's eyes, and smiled softly. "But we will be. Soon."

Aziraphale's answering smile broke across his face like a wave. "I think so," he said. "We're nearly... Nearly there."

They held each other's gaze for a while longer. Aziraphale could feel the hope rising in his chest, almost too much to hold. Crowley squeezed his hand once more, that same hope shining in him shy and real. Then, with a wriggle of his ridiculous hips, he moved himself closer on the seat so that their bodies touched in an unbroken line from shoulder to knee.

They didn't speak again. Crowley watched out of the window at the trees and hedgerows, dark against dark. When the bus joined the motorway and the trees were replaced with towering streetlamps and road signs, Crowley watched them too with the same quiet impassivity. Aziraphale didn't see the view. He was watching Crowley, watching the flicker of lights over his face, the unconscious movements of his thin lips. If he moved his head just so, he could smell Crowley's hair, the smell of smoke mixing strangely well with Crowley's natural scent.

Aziraphale's eyes flickered shut. Time compressed. The world wrapped in about itself until nothing existed beyond the weight of Crowley against his body, the smell of him in the air, the sound of his breathing. Aziraphale's heart was full, brimming full, it was the most delicious kind of pain to hold this feeling inside him. He thought of sunrise and supernovas, of a hand held on hot nights when the world was young, of oysters and wine and laughing so hard he thought he might die of it. He could die of this, he thought. He could die of this and go to God content.

Time passed, as it tends to. The bus pulled up outside Crowley's block of flats, the hiss of the doors startling Aziraphale out of himself. Crowley's head jerked up from where it had fallen against Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale considered it a gesture of great angelic compassion not to make fun of the snorting sound that accompanied the movement. He also didn't mention the little patch of drool on his shoulder, miracling it away with a thought. He squeezed Crowley's hand encouragingly.

"We're here," he said. Crowley blinked, taking stock of his surroundings. He grunted, which Aziraphale took as affirmation. "Come along. The sooner we get off, the sooner this poor man can get home."

He thanked the driver as they passed. The man nodded absent-mindedly, his brow wrinkled with burgeoning confusion. Aziraphale saw to it that a generous tax rebate would find its way to him in the next few days - it was the least he deserved.

Once they were off the bus, Crowley stretched and grumbled, trying to wring some life back into his long limbs. If the movements were hampered at all by the grip he still had on Aziraphale's hand, he didn't seem to mind. He took his glasses off his head and for a moment, Aziraphale felt a flicker of disappointment. But instead of putting them on, Crowley slid the glasses into an inside pocket.

"Right," he said. "Let's go."

The front door of the building swung open for them as they approached in a way that was surely contrary to the building's expensive security system. In the lift, Aziraphale felt again that strange pocketing of time and space - as if nothing was real outside the little box in which they rode. He shifted his grip on Crowley's hand and thrilled at Crowley's answering squeeze. He looked up at Crowley's face, but Crowley was looking straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something - and the lift pinged, doors sliding open, letting in the world in a rush.

Crowley's flat was cavernous, beautiful but bare. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way down the corridor to the living room. They passed Crowley's study and Aziraphale jerked back with a horrified squeak.

"What? What is it?" said Crowley, instantly on his guard.

"What is that?" said Aziraphale, pointing at the dreadful, oozing mess just inside the door.

Crowley looked. "Oh, that."

"Yes, that! Good grief, Crowley," he said, leaning cautiously towards the mess to get a better look. "Is it... It can't be...?"

"Ligur," said Crowley, his voice deceptively flat. "We, um. He and Hastur." Crowley shrugged. "Had a bit of a run-in," he said, his voice straining for lightness. "You know how it is."

"I bloody well don't. Crowley, this is absolutely horrible. Go and sit down, I'll clean it up for you." Crowley opened his mouth to protest but Aziraphale cut in, already shrugging off his coat and handing it over. "Don't argue with me," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "It's much too dangerous to have something touched by holy water hanging around the place and besides, I can't imagine the smell is likely to improve with time."

For a moment, Crowley looked at him with such a soft fondness that he almost changed his mind and let the night take another turn entirely. But then Crowley rolled his eyes and capitulated.

"If you insist, angel."

"I do. Put the kettle on - I'll be done in a jiffy."

Crowley sauntered off down the corridor, hips moving in improbable ways, muttering something about jiffies that Aziraphale thought it better he hadn't heard.

It didn't take long to clean up the goo formerly known as Ligur. Thankfully Crowley had opted for bare concrete floors throughout the flat - melted demon was a damn sight harder than red wine to get out of carpet.[1]

The tricky part was reaching those parts of the mess that existed on slightly different planes than the material, but it wouldn't do to leave the job half-done and risk Crowley touching a drop of unchecked holy water left lurking out of sight. Aziraphale was sweating slightly when he finished, but he walked into the living room with the satisfaction of a job well done. Crowley was sat on a big, square armchair, he rushed to his feet when Aziraphale walked in and then seemed to forget quite why. Aziraphale smiled and made his way over to where Crowley hovered, a knot of anxious energy.

"It's gone?"

Aziraphale nodded. He patted the back of the sofa absent-mindedly, not taking his seat. "All ship-shape and Bristol fashion."

"Right. Thanks. That was... Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear boy."

Silence stretched out between them. Aziraphale could feel Crowley looking at him, waiting for him to say something. When he looked back, Crowley was closer than he expected - close enough that it would barely take any effort at all to reach out, to close the space between them. He cleared his throat.

"I think you should go to bed," he said. Surprise and hope sparked on Crowley's face. "To sleep," he added, firm but kind.

"Oh."

Crowley's face fell, just a fraction. Aziraphale softened. He caught Crowley's eye and felt that same full, brimming feeling. He swallowed around it, tried to find the right words.

"My dear boy," he started. He exhaled, tried again. "Tomorrow is going to be... Well. I don't know. I don't know what might happen to, to us. To you. If anything- That is, if it were to go badly-"

His voice broke then, the threat of tears tightening around his throat. He bit his lip, took a deep breath, found Crowley's burning, earnest eyes.

"Oh, Crowley, I simply couldn't bear it," he said in a rush.

"Right," said Crowley, nodding. "Right. OK. But... What if it goes well? What if-" Crowley's voice faltered, the hope it held too much for it to bear. He looked at Aziraphale with those beautiful, patient eyes, eyes that had spent six thousand years looking into the darkest parts of creation and still saw something worth saving. "What if it all goes right?" he said, his voice a bare whisper.

Aziraphale took a step closer. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, darling."

He reached out, his fingertips just barely brushing Crowley's hand. Crowley swallowed hard. Then Aziraphale saw a look spread over his face he'd seen too many times in the last six thousand years not to recognise. It was the same look he'd seen almost eighty years ago, a night when the war paused and the world stopped turning and anything had seemed possible. He watched, helpless, as Crowley gathered up the exposed parts of himself and held them tight, steeling himself against the urgent press of his emotions.

"Right," he said, his voice echoing in the cold flat. "One more night. I can do that."

It broke Aziraphale's heart even as it saved it. And wasn't that typical of Crowley? To lay himself out raw and bloody for him over and over again, offering himself up even when Aziraphale had pushed him away so many times. To gather up the pieces of himself, lick his wounds and heal a little, only to do it all over again. To hold himself hard and sharp and strong so that Aziraphale never had to - making his own heart a shield for Aziraphale's vulnerable underbelly, fighting so hard to hold space for Aziraphale's softness.

Aziraphale stepped forwards again, he was in Crowley's space now, could feel the heat kicking off his body across the small inches between them. His fingers traced the edge of Crowley's hand, making it twitch. The memories of that night during the war were pressing in on him from all directions, the feel of Crowley beneath him, the sounds he'd made as Aziraphale had pressed his mouth against him.

"You're right," said Crowley, barely audible even so close. He curled his hand into a fist, pulling it away from Aziraphale. "It would be worse. If it went wrong."

The moment faded, water sinking into sand. Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Crowley stepped backwards.

"I'm going to have a shower," he said. He sounded very far away.

"Good," said Aziraphale, almost his usual voice. "And please, do get some sleep. You're dead on your feet."

Crowley laughed. "Sure. Will you be alright out here?"

"Oh, I'll be fine. I'll start working out our next move, I suppose." He looked over at the coffee table, raised his eyebrows. "Is one of those mine?"

Crowley looked at the two mugs of tea on the table as if seeing them for the first time. "Oh. Yeah. You can have them both, I guess. Bit cold by now though, hang on."

He clicked his fingers, and steam rose hot and inviting from the largest of the two mugs. Aziraphale smiled.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was still deceptively soft. 

"You're welcome," came the answer, just as gentle. "Night, angel."

"Good night, Crowley. Sleep well."

When Crowley had gone, Aziraphale took a seat on the big, blocky sofa[2] and helped himself to a biscuit from the little plate sat beside the drinks. It was a sweet gesture - he wasn't sure Crowley had even owned plates before tonight, let alone a packet of chocolate bourbons. He dunked his biscuit in the tea and ate, savouring the hot, soggy sweetness. Then he set his mug down on the arm of the sofa, took Agnes's last prophecy from the pocket of his waistcoat and smoothed it out against his knee.

"Alright then, Agnes. Let's see if we can't understand one another, shall we?"

#

To be quite honest, Aziraphale could never remember afterwards what the food had been like that lunchtime at the Ritz, after the end of the world. He remembered the way the light had caught Crowley's hair, how his sunglasses had flashed and shone as he laughed, how their hands had lain together, close but not quite touching, against the white tablecloth. He vaguely remembered that there had been piano music, and he knew there had been champagne because the skinny, bouncing bubbles had felt like a natural extension of the same fizzing excitement he felt in his own blood. He was alive and electric, smiling until his cheeks ached.[3] Still, he assumed there had been food. They were there so long, he could only assume they'd spent at least a little time eating as they talked and talked, circling around empty topics in that effortless, charming way they always had. It must have been hours later when Crowley gestured for the waiter to refill their glasses yet again[4] and Aziraphale felt a real and actual thought wade its way through the happy fog of his mind.

"Oh!" he said, startled by the idea's sudden presence. "Oh, dear boy, did you say the book shop was alright?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Yes, seemed to be. Everything back where it should be - with a few notable additions. Oh, nothing to worry about," he added quickly when Aziraphale's forehead crinkled in concern. "Just some new books. First editions, looked like, even if they aren't really your scene. We can go back there after this, if you like?" Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley's smile softened. "We," he clarified. "Together."

"Are you sure? You don't want to go and check on the Bentley?"

"Is she alright?"

"Yes. Perfectly, as far as I could see."

"Right then. That'll do for now. I trust you," he added. Aziraphale felt his cheeks turning pink. He smiled, flustered for the moment. Then his face fell.

"Oh! But I trust you too," he said in a rush. "When I said I'd like to see the shop, I don't mean- I mean, if you say it's all tickety boo then- What I mean to say is, of course I trust you-"

And suddenly Crowley's hand was on his, hot and dry and silencing him instantly.

"I know," he said softly. "Relax. And, for the record, I categorically did not say that it was 'tickety boo'. If you start telling people I'm using that kind of language, I shall sue you for slander."

Aziraphale wasn't listening. He was watching Crowley's long fingers tracing shapes on the back of his hand. It was a long time before he realised Crowley had stopped talking, and longer before he realised he should probably respond. He raised his eyes, pulling himself back to the present.

"Sorry, what?"

Crowley laughed, squeezed his hand and stood. "Come on, angel. Let's get you back to your books."

"Oh, we don't have to. I mean, if you'd rather-"

"I wouldn't." Crowley looked at him, and even through his sunglasses Aziraphale could feel the weight of that look. Aziraphale shivered, got to his feet.

"Right-o. After you."

#

Crowley kept up a happy stream of chatter on the way back to the bookshop, but Aziraphale could hardly concentrate. Every step they took seemed to him to be taking him deeper and deeper underwater - the pressure built until it felt like a physical reality. He was half surprised his ears hadn't popped. They rounded the corner to his street and the sight of the bookshop, untouched and exactly as he'd left it, stopped him in his tracks. Crowley looked at him, a question on his face, but didn't speak. Aziraphale was grateful. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to answer.

It was evening, just starting to get dark, and the light had a strange, unreal quality. They crossed the road in silence, save for their footsteps and the burr of conversation from the coffee shop nearby, and the rush of people walking past, and the constant hum of traffic, and the bright rising sparks of birdsong breaking through the noise. Aziraphale fumbled for his key and tried not to notice the way Crowley leant against the pillar as he waited, the same pillar he'd leant on 80 years ago[5] with those same long legs thrown out in front of him, the same quiet patience waiting for Aziraphale as it always had. He nearly dropped his keys. Finally, he pushed the door open and let Crowley in first, pulling the door closed behind him.

The effect was immediate. The hum of the street outside was gone. The bookshop was silent as only an empty building can be. Except that it wasn't empty. Crowley wandered over to a table piled with books and flicked one open at random. The sound of paper on paper filled the room. Then Crowley's eyes found Aziraphale, and he smiled, and it was deafening.

"All better," he said.

"Quite."

Crowley tilted his head to one side, frowning slightly. He let his hand fall still on the open book. "Are you alright, angel?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine, thank you. I'm just a bit... Champagne, you know. Goes to my head."

"Yeah, that's kind of the point of it," grinned Crowley. "Makes you all sort of... gooey."

Aziraphale tried to swallow, managed it on the second attempt. He pulled himself together. "I'm going to make some tea," he said, already setting off towards the back room. "Would you like some?" He didn't wait for an answer.

He was clattering about, taking out mugs and a teapot, then changing his mind and opting for teabags instead, the kettle already filled and starting to boil, when Crowley appeared in the doorway.

"Oh good grief!" Aziraphale startled, dropping the bottle of milk he'd been taking out of the fridge. It bounced, mercifully still closed and so saving the floor from an impromptu flood. Aziraphale picked it up and set it on the countertop. "You gave me a fright," he admonished over his shoulder.

"I don't want tea," said Crowley. His voice was even and seemed deeper than usual.

"No? Would you prefer coffee? Or I think I have something herbal in the cupboards?"

"No."

The weight of the syllable made Aziraphale turn at last. Crowley had taken off his sunglasses and was leaning against the door frame, all elegance, arms folded across his chest. He nodded at the kettle which was starting to vibrate with boiling water.

"Turn that off," he said.

Aziraphale did as he was told. Silence rushed into the space. He could hear his heart beating, wondered if Crowley could too.

"Aziraphale."

His eyes found Crowley's and something in him started to break. He was a dam creaking with the effort of holding back so much, for so long. He opened his mouth, but it was too much. He swallowed, eyes silently asking Crowley to do this for him one more time, just once more, to take the lead and show him how it could be done. Crowley understood - always.

"I love you," he said, as if it was easy. He straightened up, moved forwards, arms unfolded, leaving himself open and vulnerable. "I love you," he said again, and this time, Aziraphale broke.

He stepped into Crowley's embrace like he belonged there. He felt long arms wrap around him, holding him close. Tears were spilling out of him and Crowley's mouth was there, kissing them away, his hand in Aziraphale's hair, his breath hot against his cheek.

"Say," Aziraphale tried, but broke off with a sob. "Say it again," he managed at last.

"I love you," instantly, easily, over and over. "I love you. I love you." Crowley was smiling around the words, Aziraphale could feel where his mouth pressed against him. He buried his face in Crowley's neck and smiled too, his hands bunched in the back of Crowley's jacket and pulling him closer.

When he stopped shaking, Crowley pulled himself away just enough to put his hands on either side of Aziraphale's face and tilt it up to his. His thumbs wiped the last tears from Aziraphale's pink-flushed cheeks. He looked down at him with such softness that Aziraphale could hardly breathe. Then Crowley raised his eyebrows, apparently waiting for something. Aziraphale blinked.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" Crowley prompted.

"Oh!" A smile, broad and bright as sunlight, crested on Aziraphale's face. "I love you too," he beamed. "I love you, I'm in love with you. Have been for ages. Likely to remain so," he added, laughing now.

Crowley was laughing too, peppering soft, fond kisses across Aziraphale's face. "Sounds good," he said, and Aziraphale felt the vibration of the words through his own chest. He turned his face, and finally their mouths met, lips slipping over one another as easy as breathing.

This time, there was no hurry. He kissed Crowley with single-minded attention to detail, determined to record and register every prick of stubble against his lips, every flicker of tongue against tongue. In the end it was Crowley who pulled away first, his lips flushed and swollen, a look of perfect happy astonishment on his face. He looked, if Aziraphale was being honest, a little dopey, but all the more endearing for it. Aziraphale pushed forwards once more, in no rush to stop now they'd started. But Crowley's hand on his chest stopped him.

"I think," said Crowley, his voice hoarse, "I think we should go upstairs. If you want to. If you'd like, I mean. I mean-"

The words tilted Aziraphale headlong from desire into bare and open need. He felt the blood surge in his veins. "Yes. Yes, I'd like to. Very much. Oh, I'd like to," and they were kissing again, bodies pressing against each other in instinctive, perfect rhythm.

Aziraphale moved his legs, pressed his thigh against Crowley's crotch and was rewarded with a gratifying moan of pleasure. There was a soft bump as Crowley's back hit the doorframe but neither paid it any mind. If anything it gave them more purchase, a solid surface to push from. Crowley's hands twisted in Aziraphale's hair, pulling to bring Aziraphale's mouth to his neck. Aziraphale was happy to oblige, kissing the soft skin under Crowley's jaw before running his tongue and teeth down over his jugular. With his own mouth free, the sounds that came out of Crowley were all the more delicious. Every groan, every whimper, sent jolts of pleasure through Aziraphale's own body.

"Up, upstairs," Crowley panted. "Please, fuck. Oh, fuck."

Aziraphale knew they should move, knew that it made sense, but he couldn't bring himself to care. With one hand, he gripped Crowley's hip, holding him still as he ground his own hips against him. His other hand moved over Crowley's beautiful, long torso, popping open the buttons of his shirt and slipping inside to feel the soft, hot skin beneath. His fingers traced over one small nipple and he rolled it it in his fingers, pinching experimentally. Crowley's hips jerked and twitched, he swore again, louder this time.

"Aziraphale, take me upstairs, please, take- Please," he gasped.

In a fluid motion, Aziraphale clicked his fingers and stepped forwards, sending Crowley tumbling down onto the bed that had appeared behind him. Or, no, the bed hadn't moved - they had, transported instantly to the small flat above the shop that Aziraphale called home. Crowley didn't have much time to look around. As soon as his back hit the mattress, Aziraphale was there, kissing and licking and biting, his hands running over every part of Crowley he could reach. He was drunk on it, absolutely lost in the sensation, his brain broadcasting nothing but Crowley's name.

He indulged for a moment longer, then forced himself to pull away, lifting his face to look at Crowley properly. Crowley looked back, his eyes entirely yellow, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"You OK?" he said.

"I needed to... To see you."

Crowley swallowed. He shifted himself backwards, moving to the top of the bed so he could rest his head against the pillows. He nodded for Aziraphale to follow.

"C'mere," he said.

Aziraphale followed, slotting himself between Crowley's thighs and letting his hips drop. He was painfully hard, his cock throbbing with want, and he could feel the line of Crowley's own erection pressing against him through his trousers. He moved his hips, dragging out the sensation and making Crowley arch his back in pleasure. Aziraphale clicked his fingers, vanishing their shoes and socks. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him.

"They're a terrible faff," Aziraphale reasoned. He pressed a kiss to Crowley's neck. "I'd like to take my time with the rest though."

Crowley laughed. "Fair enough."

He brought his mouth to Aziraphale's and kissed him once more, soft and deep. Aziraphale undid the last few buttons of Crowley's shirt and moved to give him enough space to take it off entirely, smiling kindly when he saw a flash of self-consciousness on Crowley's face.

"You're lovely," he whispered. "Absolutely lovely."

"Stop that," Crowley said, less than half-hearted.

"No. Shan't. Not ever, not now." It was Aziraphale's turn to be dopey now, he could feel the silly, lovestruck smile plastered over his face. Crowley shook his head, feigning exasperation even as his ears turned perfectly pink.

"Get over here. Idiot."

Crowley's clever fingers made light work of Aziraphale's own waistcoat and shirt, he shrugged them off and let them drop down by the side of the bed. The feeling of Crowley's naked torso against his own was nothing he could have prepared himself for. The contrast of soft, hot skin and hard bones beneath, the way Crowley's body moved under his touch, the incredible intimacy of being pressed, skin to skin, against him after so long. Aziraphale was dizzy with it.

He kissed down Crowley's neck, over his chest, took one of his nipples between his lips and started to suck, kissing and biting, making Crowley buck and gasp with pleasure. He brought his hand down to Crowley's legs, slipped it between them to feel the give of muscle on Crowley's inner thigh, tracing the seam of his jeans up, up, finally to cup his crotch.

Crowley's cock was hard and urgent under Aziraphale's hand. He squeezed the length of it where it pressed, desperate against the denim, his mouth never ceasing in its ministrations as he did so. Crowley twisted underneath him, barely coherent. When Aziraphale undid the button of Crowley's fly, the pressure of his erection was enough to send the zip down an inch or so without Aziraphale having to touch it. He undid it the rest of the way and slipped his hand inside. Crowley's cock was hot to the touch, heavy in Aziraphale's hand as he pumped it through his underwear. At the tip, Aziraphale could feel a wet stain spreading through the cotton, and this proof of Crowley's pleasure sent shiver of arousal through him.

"You're so wet," he breathed, breath gusting against Crowley's chest. "You're so hard and wet for me, darling."

Crowley jerked at the word, his teeth pressed into his lower lip to keep from crying out. "Oh, fuck, Aziraphale," he panted. "Please, angel, please."

Aziraphale lifted his head, kissed Crowley's jaw through his smiles. "What do you want, my love? What do you need?"

"I don't- I don't know," Crowley confessed, laughing and breathless. "Fuck, I don't know, just... please," he finished, hopelessly.

Aziraphale laughed too, spilling over with love and affection. "I'll do my best," he said, and pressed another smiling kiss to Crowley's cheek.

Then he pulled away entirely, moving to stand at the end of the bed so quickly that Crowley was left reeling with the sudden loss of warmth and weight. But he didn't have long to wait. Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's waistband and pulled, peeling those ludicrous jeans down and off Crowley's skinny legs. With a helpful kick and a bit of wriggling on Crowley's part, they were finally off. Aziraphale shook his head as he dropped them.

"Ridiculous things," he said, smiling.

"Worked though," said Crowley.

"Hm? You mean me? Oh, darling, you could have 'pulled' me wearing nothing but a bin bag and a pair of Crocs."

Crowley burst out laughing, sudden and surprised. He hardly knew where to start. "I didn't know you even knew what Crocs were," he said. "Let alone pulling."

"It's been six thousand years. I've hardly been living under a rock the entire time."

He started on his own trousers, stepping out of them utterly unselfconscious under Crowley's rapt attention. He adjusted his cock, not really thinking about it until he saw the look on Crowley's face. A wicked smile touched the corners of Aziraphale's mouth. He tilted his head on one side and looked Crowley up and down, squeezing his cock as he did. Crowley shivered, licking his lips, keen but not quite sure how to proceed. Aziraphale nodded towards Crowley's crotch.

"Can I see?"

It took a moment for Crowley to understand. Then he nodded, pushing his underpants off his hips and tugging them down around his thighs. Aziraphale pulled them off the rest of the way leaving Crowley naked on the bed before him. Aziraphale sighed appreciatively.

"You're beautiful," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."

Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley blush for a long time. The flush started on his chest and rose up his long, elegant neck to flood his cheeks. He rolled his eyes, taking refuge in bravado.

"Come on then," he said. "You too. Fair's fair."

Aziraphale couldn't argue with that. He took off his own underwear, his prick bobbing with the movement. Crowley swallowed. He didn't seem sure what to say. Aziraphale didn't mind. He had plenty of ideas. [6]

He climbed back onto the bed, pushing Crowley's legs apart. He reached down and took Crowley's dick in his hand. It was long and achingly hard, slightly curved to Crowley's left, and seemed wont to drip precum at the slightest provocation. Aziraphale's mouth fairly watered at the sight. He moved his hand, slicking precum across the head with his thumb, and started to move in earnest. Crowley let his head fall back across the pillows, mouth slack with pleasure. For a moment, Aziraphale was content to watch him, moving his hand over Crowley's cock in a steady, undemanding rhythm. Then he shifted position, making Crowley look up.

"May I?" said Aziraphale, licking his lips. Crowley's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

"Fuck yes."

The first brush of Crowley's cock against his tongue, he knew he was done for. There would be nothing as good as this again. He pumped his hand along the shaft, licking up the precum as it beaded on Crowley's tip. Then he wrapped his lips around the tip, relishing the taste, and pressed his tongue against the sensitive underside, making Crowley shiver and groan. Aziraphale let himself slide down Crowley's cock, dragging his lips down, down, until it hit the back of his throat. He pulled himself back up, following with his hand, and glanced up at Crowley to see the effect.

Crowley was sprawled out on the bed, utterly unreserved, one arm thrown across his eyes as the other just barely moved in Aziraphale's hair. Aziraphale watched him as he bobbed up and down on Crowley's cock, a steady stream of spit and precum making slick, obscene sounds that went straight to Aziraphale's dick. Crowley was making sounds too, unchecked and delicious. His long body was stretched out, showing the sharp jut of his hips, the bumps of his ribs under pale skin. Aziraphale moved one hand to Crowley's flank and moved his mouth away from his cock with a filthy, wet sound. He took it in his hand instead, pumping it slowly as he kissed Crowley's inner thigh, making him whimper and twitch.

"Please, Aziraphale, please," he whispered.

Aziraphale smiled. "Not just yet, darling." He ran his tongue up the underside of Crowley's shaft, flicking the tip.

Crowley threw his head back, groaning. "I should have fucking known," he said, teeth gritted.

"Hmm?"

"I should have known," he repeated, propping himself up on his elbows and looking at Aziraphale with a mixture of exasperation and affection, "that if I took you to bed you'd be a total bloody hedonist."

Aziraphale laughed at that. "Take me to bed? I really rather think I'm the one taking you, my dear boy."

Crowley conceded the point, falling back onto the pillows with a sigh. "So take me already," he said, half-laughing.

When Aziraphale didn't respond, he raised his head again and looked down. A strange expression was on the angel's face. "What?" said Crowley. "What is it?"

"Would you... Do you think you might enjoy that?"

Crowley didn't understand. Aziraphale moved back up the bed, covering Crowley's body with his own and pressing kisses to whichever part of him he passed on the way. Finally he kissed Crowley on the jaw, nosing gently at his ear.

"Would you like me to take you?" he said, voice low and careful, pressing a kiss to Crowley's earlobe. He felt him shiver as his meaning hit home.

"Oh," Crowley breathed. His fingers dug into Aziraphale's shoulders, he moved to push his face into his neck, overwhelmed for the moment by the thought.

"You don't have to," Aziraphale said in that same even, careful voice. "I won't be disappointed. You're perfect like this, my love. You're perfect."

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, air rushing out of him. He could barely stay still, Aziraphale could feel the rattle of his heartbeat where their chests touched. "Oh, fuck me, Aziraphale. Please, fuck me."

The sound of those words in that voice, after all these thousands of years, nearly made Aziraphale short-circuit. He reminded himself to breathe, tried to stay present. Crowley's legs were pressed close on either side of him, he could feel the bristle of hair up Crowley's thighs, the heat of Crowley's crotch against his own, the slick of sweat on Crowley's chest.

"Fuck," he said, quietly.

The effect was electric. Crowley jumped as he'd been pinched, the look on his face one of perfect surprise.

"Wh- What did you just say?" he spluttered.

"Shut up," said Aziraphale, kissing the idiot look off his face. "That was... That was very, um. Hot." He kept his eyes closed, could already feel the blush burning his cheeks without having to see Crowley's reaction to this revelation.

"What- You mean..." Understanding started to dawn in his voice. "You like it when I say things like... Fuck me, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale was not proud of the noise he made, but was too far gone to feel much shame about it either. He felt Crowley's laughter more than hearing it.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, his voice dripping with sex and just a twinge of humour. "Oh, fuck me, angel. I want to feel your cock inside me. I want to feel you stretch me open and fuck my tight, wet hole, I want you to come insi-"

He broke off with a gasp as Aziraphale's fingers, slick and wet, found their way between them to press at Crowley's hole. He arched his back as Aziraphale felt him, not pushing inside just yet, just introducing Crowley to the idea in earnest.

"Oh, fuck, that feels- Angel, that feels incredible," Crowley panted, all hint of irony in his voice gone.

A smug flourish of self-satisfaction ran through Aziraphale. He took his time, slowly working one finger, then another. If Crowley's body seemed to accomodate him rather quicker than human bodies tended to, he didn't complain. He wouldn't complain about anything that could make Crowley buck and beg like that. He slipped a third finger in alongside the others, thrusting in and out in a slow, even rhythm. He lost himself in the sensation, lost in the give and push of Crowley's body beneath him, the sounds that broke free from his kiss-flushed lips.

"Fuck me, Aziraphale," Crowley panted. "I need you."

Aziraphale nodded, swallowed, pulled his fingers free. He took his cock in his hand, realising as he did how desperately, keenly aroused he was. He caught Crowley's gaze and smiled.

"I don't think I'm going to last very long," he said, not quite apologetically. "Fairly, um. Worked up."

His head was spinning, he could feel every drop of blood in his body moving through him. He swallowed.

"Do you want to take a break?" said Crowley, the look of concern on his lovely face flushing Aziraphale with affection. He shook his head and Crowley smiled. "OK. Good."

He moved his hips, lining them up. And then, finally, he slipped inside Crowley with a sigh. For a moment, he couldn't move. The heat was total, Crowley tight around him. He shifted his hips and Crowley groaned with pleasure. Crowley's fingernails dug into his back, sharp bright points of pain that only served to heighten the pleasure. He moved again, eyes pressed shut to concentrate on the sensation. He felt hands gentle against his face.

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, just loud enough for him to hear.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley was looking up at him, flushed and sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead. Aziraphale smoothed his hand over Crowley's brow, kissing him softly. Love swelled in him, total and consuming. He moved, finding his rhythm, slow but relentless. He lost track of time, lost track of everything but Crowley's body, Crowley's breath, Crowley's love.

"Touch me," Crowley said, his lips hot on the shell of Aziraphale's ear. Aziraphale reached between them and took Crowley in his hand, moving his fist in time with his hips. He felt Crowley's orgasm starting to build and moved faster, creating a feedback loop of pleasure. Crowley's breath came in ragged gasps, he tilted back his head and his throat fluttered with his frantic pulse.

"Oh, Go- Aziraphale," he panted. "I'm- I'm going to-"

He spilled out over his chest and stomach and Aziraphale's fist, hot ribbons of come that were immediately smeared between their bodies as Aziraphale bent down to kiss Crowley's mouth and cheeks and forehead and every part of him he could reach. Aziraphale's own orgasm was quick to follow, hard and fierce. He was quiet as he came, teeth pressed into his bottom lip so hard he thought he might draw blood, his face buried in Crowley's hair. He tried not to slump his full weight over Crowley but his arms trembled with the effort.

"It's OK," said Crowley, stroking the back of his neck. "It's OK. I've got you."

With that, the last of Aziraphale's strength left him. He let himself fall, spent and mindless. He pulled himself out of Crowley with a grunt and with the last of his energy found a way for them to lie, tangled in a pile of sweaty limbs, as much of their bodies touching as possible. He pulled Crowley close, thought about saying something, waited for the words to come to him. But he was fast asleep before they reached him.

#

He woke at some point in the night, sticky and uncomfortable. He nudged Crowley awake.

"Hngh?"

"You're on my arm, darling."

"Ngh."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. Just lift up a moment. That's it. Lovely."

"Mm."

He clicked his fingers, cleaning up the sticky mess and doing a little something for the sweat dried on their skin and on the sheets. He moved around, pulling Crowley's unresisting limbs into a more comfortable position for them both. Crowley clung to him like a limpet, cuddling close and sighing contentedly. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the sweet smell of a much-loved man at peace. Then he pulled the blankets up around them and settled down. This sleeping business wasn't half bad, he reflected. The trick, as with so many things, was in having the right company.

He had nearly drifted off again when Crowley moved against him, just barely surfacing.

"L'v yuh," he mumbled, mouth slack and sleepy. A flood of warmth rushed through Aziraphale, making the hairs on the back of his hair bristle with joy.

"I love you too."

And even in his sleep, Crowley smiled to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Though really, thought Aziraphale, wouldn't a nice hardwood floor have done the trick? Concrete was such a brutal choice. He hoped vaguely that Crowley at least had a nice pair of slippers to wear when he was at home, but he seriously doubted it. [return to text]
> 
> 2 He miracled himself a few cushions and a nice Donegal tweed blanket for good measure. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Which took some doing - he was an angel, after all, "beatific" was part of the job description.) [return to text]
> 
> 4 The motion of his hands a little less elegant than it had been earlier in the night. Or was it still day? Time had gone loose and baggy at the knees like a pair of ancient jogging bottoms relegated to Sundays spent indoors. [return to text]
> 
> 5 And a hundred, a thousand times since, but that wasn't the point. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Aziraphale wasn't sure how much experience Crowley had of sex - it had never really come up between them, and Aziraphale hadn't liked to pry. But as the night went on he was starting to become fairly sure that he was the one of the pair with a clearer idea of how these things usually unfolded. Not that it mattered - a little love, a little enthusiasm, and the ability to laugh at oneself were the only real requirements in Aziraphale's experience. [return to text]


End file.
